Turkey Talk

Thanksgiving is a time to be truly thankful
for family--and many things--particularly
for not being a turkey!

My daughter took one look at the turkey in
the refrigerator and said “It’s a little small, isn’t it?”
Anything larger than 10 lbs. and I’d need to
throw out an entire shelf of food.
I’m stacking butter and dip, jams and mango
salsa as it is…

I was informed that most people eat
Thanksgiving dinner around 1:00.
The pilgrims in my family began cooking
the turkey around 4:00 p.m.
I think my ancestors came over on a
different vessel--later in the day, too.

I’m a descendant of Zachary Taylor, the 12th
President. I’m not sure what time he had
his Thanksgiving dinner…he looked well fed though.
Back to turkey day...

I’m definitely thankful that I’m walking
without my leg cast.
My family is the joy of my life,
And I’m blessed with friends--both near and far.
I’m thankful for all my readers in cyberspace, too.

Last of all, I hope our resident ducks, Cruiser
and Whitey will come around soon.
They’ve been missing since Sept., no doubt
living it up in warmer climes.

I hope everyone has a wonderful Thanksgiving--
and to those who don’t celebrate the holiday,
have a great day!

Gobble…

Step Into My Web...

Hello, my dearies!
Welcome to the Witchin’ Kitchen where I
will brew up tales of Hollow’s Night of Yore.

Many harvest moons ago, there lived a
family of four in the beach city of
Santa Monica, where the foghorn bellowed
and the dense fog swirled in ghostly waves,
bathing the city in an eerie glow.

Halloween was spooky in our neighborhood.
Houses all stacked like dominoes lined the
unlit street, with narrow passageways
between the houses.

I was convinced a witch lived in one of the
houses along the walkway. Her pointy nose and
glaring eyes always peered through the parted
lace curtains at the window anytime I walked by.

Mom loved Halloween.
She wore her huge black witch’s hat, and tied
a sheet around her.
Raisins dotted her face like old, gnarled warts.

Michael was a pirate and I, a witch--what else?
I’m not sure if my Halloween bucket got pirated
and pillaged by Michael as I stealthily tried to
hide my treats.

Years later, we were living in the hot San
Fernando Valley where thoughts of Halloween
were brewing yet again.
We decorated the house with ‘pumpkin tumbleweeds’.
Mom had her warty, powdered face and dad had a
few surprises of his own.

When the grandkids came over Halloween night,
he told them to go to the closet...
Suddenly, the kids were screaming--dad had
his prosthetic leg propped up in the corner with
an old shoe attached.
That always gave dad a laugh.

As I later had my own family, I strung cobwebs,
hung skeletons and spiders, stuck a candle in a
cow’s skull, and played spooky howling tapes from
the upstairs window that could be heard outdoors.
Needless to say, there were few kids coming to the door!

It’s that time of year again, in another town where
we have Halloween parades up the street of our
gated community, and a few kids will come to claim
their treats. I have an overfilled pot of candy waiting--
and maybe, a trick or two…

I'm in Love With You...

After 38 years of marriage I've learned
a few things, particularly ways not to make
a husband gag:

* Don't stuff yourself into a bikini meant for Twiggy.

* Don't pierce anything other than your ear lobes--
and a nice juicy steak!

* Don't wear mini-skirts if you're not a 'mini'.

* Don't wear ankle bracelets that look as though
you're under house arrest.

* Don't wear midriff shirts that float over
The Island of Flab.

* If your 'skin' doesn't 'fit' you like it did
when you were first married, ban yourself
from those drive-thrus!

* Avoid or don't over do Botox-ing and facelifting--
he didn't marry a manikin.

* Too much sun equals skin like a dromedary--
only camels belong outside that much.

* Keep a sense of humor--it can throw your
husband off-balance when he wants to start complaining...

* Don't 'show' too much--'cracks' are for sidewalks!

*Treat yourself and life like a fine wine--
let it age naturally.

To my husband, Tom: Happy Anniversary,
with many more to come.

I'll love you "'til the 12th of Never..."

Whine And Dine...

"Doctor, can you help me?"
"What seems to be the problem?"
"Writer's Block. I can't seem to get my funny on."
"Ahh, yes, that could be a problem."
"Ok...so what can I do about my writing drought?"
"I don't know--can't think of a thing."
Big help...

I need an elixir of Rodney Dangerfield, with a double
shot of Woody Allen and Carl Hiaasen--something
I can't get at Blue Martini!
Some people are dripping with humorous anecdotes
and one-liners, with little effort, it seems.

I could make fun of myself, I suppose.
Tom's been calling me peg-leg.
I've become glued to my sofa lately--not by choice.
I fractured my ankle recently.

I'd rather be outside in the pool, enjoying the
hot Florida sun, or on the Las Vegas trip we
had to cancel this week.

So, I've been following orders to stay off my feet.
I'm getting into the Cleopatra routine: Enjoying
being waited on hand and foot--pardon the pun.
More fruit, maybe a sweet tea, please.

I haven't been through a drive-thru in a long time.
Maybe I'll get Jen to take me this week--though,
with the luck that's been hitting me over the last
few months, I'd probably wind up with an 'unhappy' meal!
But I digress.

With a collective heave I hoist myself from the sofa,
clogging my way to the kitchen to grab the Dustbuster.
Cleo left her cookie crumbs between the cushions--
which has taken on the shape of her bum...

Brain Warp--Rebooting...

I've been sucked into creative quicksand.
Sitting on the sofa, glancing out to the back
yard, I'm waiting for an instant spark of
something funny to tickle the dormant folds
of my usually witty brain.

This on and off period of writing has been the
longest bout of writer's constipation I've ever
experienced. It hasn't helped that I'd been
sidelined by a 'locked' back, and most recently
by an injured ankle--thanks to a misplaced tool box.

I've been watching The Weather Channel, and
all of the whirling dervish spin-offs dancing off
Africa.

Most seasoned Florida residents have
grown accustomed to the over-hype--the
prognostications of the weather men who can't
wait for a tropical storm to hit the coast so they
can valiantly smack-dab themselves right in the
middle of the event...

Every year the hurricane predictors say we're in
for an extremely active season. I just took stock
of my hurricane closet: 2 cases of Sam's water,
some cans of soup, paper plates and cups and
plastic ware,dry foods, as well as 2 propane
camp stoves and enough propane canisters.

I also have 3 loaves of duck bread-- I've had to
stock up since Cruiser is bringing her ducky friends
to the house. If you are a new reader of my blog,
Cruiser is a sweet Muscovy duck who chose our
house to visit everyday.

She's been cruising around the yard from the
lake for over a year. Only recently, Cruiser's
brought along Whitey--and occasionally, another
duck we've not named yet. They are both bread fiends...

Out back there's a swale, a flooded river running
along the width of grass. A couple of weeks ago
we spotted catfish spiraling out from the ground
beneath the water, swimming quickly, then 'walking'
into the woods, like something out of a Stephen King novel.

So, here I am, molting, waiting for a simmering
idea to boil over, watching tiny lizards and a frog
scoot close to the pool's edge...

There's a water bowl outside for the ducks.
There was an Indigo snake coiled over the
bowl a few weeks ago, sipping away...

Oh, I see two bobbing heads coming around the
side of the lanai enclosure, like clockwork.
Whitey and Cruiser are peeking over at me between
the plants...
Gotta go feed them...call of the wild!

Clear The Roads...!

Capt. Tom, thinking did Nan kill the VW?

Tom, with the new car after the

VW died a stick-shift death!

Our VW rib-tickler!

If ya don't like my driving, stay off the road
could've been my slogan when I was learning to drive.
Unlike most people who were driving at 16, I was 27--
bulging with expectant parenthood.

Not only was it a tight squeeze, between me and the
steering wheel, I was cursed with learning on a
stick-shift in my husband's original VW Bug.

While my daughter was busy kicking me in the ribs,
I was ready to stick the shifter! Frustrated that I wasn't
sequencing that well with the clutch, brake, gas and stick,
I'd decided that childbirth would be a hiccup compared to
learning to drive that antique.

Tom was an airline captain and I was expecting that he
was going to call ahead for special clearance--that an
erratically driving female was loose on the road.

I'd managed to run over a row of rosebushes, cut the
turn on the corner, causing a flabbergasted pedestrian
to jump back a few feet.

Finally, after many driving lessons, I was ready to get
my license. Lucky for the man testing my driving ills--
I mean skills--he passed me, out of sheer self-preservation.
I guess hormonally-challenged females, this close to poppin',
was something he didn't want to face--again.

It's a lucky thing I never became an airline pilot...

Just Beachy...

Reptilius Wrinkilum, characterized by and resembling
shed snake skin, is an affliction shared by those
humans who don't look like pancake batter.

Add a little unwanted 'real estate' and behold--it's
a sight: Rippled layers of varnished, lizard-like skin
that appears to have been squashed by a Goodyear tire,
then stretched past the known capacity of nylon and spandex.
In other words, miles of beach-tanned, bikini-ed and
Speedo-ed torsos, frolicking back and forth under the
tropical Florida sun.

The men are a 'whisper' away from centerfold exposure.
The ladies prance along with dimpled, 'thonged' behinds--
looks like a Silly Putty convention...

I wore a swimsuit once, more of a flotation device--that,
when I began swimming, would billow out--much like
the inner tube I used to float on as a kid--drifting between
the pilings of the Santa Monica Pier...

Rising from the bathtub-warm waters of the Gulf, I
looked like a beached whale. Suddenly all the water
dumped out from my swimsuit--along with a slithery
Ramora I called Ramon--since it had clung to my ribcage
the entire time.

So now, bikini clad, I notice that I'm not far from being
in the select classification of Reptilius Wrinkilum--as I
enjoy the tropical outdoors. I'm also noticing that I need
to work out a little harder, too.
Gosh, that almond cookie was sooo good...
Sonia, I slipped...

Don't Kid Me!

Kidney beans, kidney pie, kidney stones--
whoa, not on my menu!
I've never had one of those excruciating
episodes and don't intend to.

I think my body is afraid to manufacture stones
since I hold my breath and swallow tablespoons
of raw, unfiltered apple cider vinegar during the day.
Gag me...

My son knows when something vile is crossing
my lips.
Sure isn't a candy bar...
The essence permeates from the kitchen to
where he's sitting a few feet away.

I've taken to a Dr. Weil and Dr. Oz way of good
health, for awhile now, side-stepping the amazing
bakery case at my favorite book store.

It's not always easy when I see a delicious apple
danish grinning back at me.
I figure it's either sacrifice something tasty and
live longer and healthier, or dunk into Donut Hole
Heaven, and eventually have hell to pay-- waddling
around like Cruiser, our resident duck...

I Have a Bone To Pick...

I'll have one Dino-Chicken with garlic mashed
potatoes, please.
Huh? How is it served up--rolled up to my table on a dolly?

It seems that a dino-chicken may be scientifically
created one day. A recent paleo-archaeologist discovered
a bone sticking out from a massive cliff face--a femur of
a very extinct dinosaur...60 million years old.
That's a lot of birthdays.

The find was so massive that an excavation crew was
brought to the site. The femur was broken into small
workable sections for removal.

Once back to the lab, the specimens were placed under
microscopes. What was discovered was active DNA :
thread-like, stringy blood vessels--and a gooey substance
from the femur's center--marrow.
How could that be?

So, I'm wondering, what will the scientists do with
this discovery? It's a scary thought to think that some
"mad" laboratory scientist could mix up a batch of hybrid dinosaurs.
Shades of a future Jurassic Park...?
Should Disney worry?

Will there be a super-chicken packaged in the poultry case?
Can I look forward to a super-sized roasting chicken,
instead of the paltry selection of scrawny rotisserie chickens
flashing their golden bony legs and flat chests?
One can only dream...

Hang Time...

With cell in hand, I enter the number.
Press 1 for English.
There’s something wrong with that.

The voice lists the menu options: longer than Pinocchio’s nose.
I try to remember what options 2,3, and 4 were.
I’m sorry, but all customer service representatives are busy.
The average wait time is 8 minutes. Please hold...
Hmmmm.

Let’s see…in 8 minutes, I can pour another cup of tea,
polish my nails, knock down spider-sack webs from the
pool enclosure, or go online to order Poisonous Snake insurance.
No, not really, though it’s not a bad idea…

Hanging up after 7.5 minutes of listening to bellowing
recorded music that rivaled the mating call of a wild yak,
I decided that I just saved myself $15.00.

Making the rounds around the pool deck to my padded
chaise lounge, I suddenly feel something crawling along my arm.

Looking down, I see a medium-sized black spider, dangling
from a web, orbs glaring at me, its spindly legs dancing along my arm.
Yikes! I whack it off with a paperback book, then step on it.

Maybe I should opt for poisonous spider insurance…

Golden Dreams

Where have all the years gone, and so quickly?
These thoughts cross my mind every once in awhile,
especially now as I've had my 63rd birthday.
If I could, would I go back to an earlier time, back
to my teen years or my college days?

If I'd had a way of foretelling the future, I may
have done a few things differently, change my
direction a bit, but then again...
If I'd fallen in love at 19 with the handsome Italian
fella living next door, whom I felt was in love with me
at the time , I'd no doubt have a houseful of kids.
But, I might also be divorced—since that was his
status a few years ago, and still might be.


If I'd been more motivated to finish college and
get a degree, I'd be teaching English Comp right now.
When I'd moved to San Francisco in 1970, I was working
at a local store. From the entrance I heard,
“Nancy, what on God's earth are you doing working here?”
My jaw dropped.

It was my former college professor, Jean Wilkinson,
who'd had very high aspirations for me.
She'd kept many of the works I'd written, and thought
I would've pursued a writing career, at the very least.
Presently, I'm still writing: short stories and romantic
poetry,as well as this blog.

If I'd followed my parents to Oregon instead of moving to
the Bay Area, I would've never met my husband, a handsome
airline captain,and had our two children.
Nor would I have had the opportunity to meet Charlton Heston
or Bing Crosby who were customers of mine one day.

We now live in South West Florida, which has changed the
direction of my life. I'm a freelance photographer, living a dream
I've always had--sequestered in the back of my mind.
I'm an artist, too.

Life is often convoluted.
You're never sure what each day is going to bring.
Ah, to be a kid again...?
Not a chance.

Wheely Pat?

I'm waiting for my phone to ring--the call telling me
that I'm a contestant on "The Wheel".
You know the show--the show where Vanna looks
doomed to wear, at times, the most ridiculously
outlandish evening dresses. Isn't Outlandish a planet?
Nah, but it should be...

I think my luck in receiving a phone call is much
like my luck in hatching an egg!
Paul reminds me that I had a darn good contestant
chance last summer when the traveling wheel was in
Naples for a contestant search.

It was a broiling hot day.
Jen and I approached the area of the search,
Hodges University, sweeping our eyes over the
multitude of hopefuls, and decided that standing in the
hot humid sun, probably for hours, was not that enticing.

So, on most nights, I'm correctly guessing the answer,
usually with only a smattering of letters, sometimes
with only 2 or 3 letters showing.
Tom and Paul usually can't believe how quickly
I can guess. They both think my wallet would be
bulging by now, if I were on the show...

Maybe I'll try out this summer--can I wear my swimsuit?

Gripes, Gotchas--And Then Some...

PC gremlins are haunting my HP.
The whatzit kind that materializes seemingly,
for no material reason! I’m thinking it could be
one of several reasons: PSU failure, the fan, or
dust bunnies running around inside the case.

The pc freezes while online, goes to a black screen.
No apparent viruses present. The monitor screen will
occasionally display gray and white diagonal lines.
Coming to grips with this annoying problem is turning
my hair grayer and whiter!

Last night on the news, I was very disturbed--
not that I’m not in that present frame of mine
with my pc problems!

Some dingbat official decided that Naples’ Muscovy
ducks should be eliminated. They are being 'humanely'
euthanized. My mouth fell open at the ludicrous suggestion
that these cute “citizens” which roam our lakes and parks,
are nuisances and highly dangerous creatures!
Let me say that there are far more two-footed “dangers”
we should be concerned with, particularly those who
cell-talk and drive.

I’ve never been so aggravated.
Now, I can understand why Cruzer, our neighborhood
Muscovy, has been lying low for a few days.
I sure hope she’s got the “spring fling thing” and hasn't
been captured.

Love is in the air in the bug and bird world.
Luv-bugs are enjoying marathon sessions, mid-air--amazing!
Female birds are playing hard to get--their antics are
quite amusing, and keeps my mind off Cruzer’s absence.

Tom is in a chopping mood. Our poor palm trees out
front have been topped-- glad he didn’t become a barber…
The wasps are building condos in our hot garage.
They’re zeroing in on the holes in the garage doors.

Tom is forever swatting them--he’s been stung
once already. Yes, it’s another hot day in paradise,
and my day is planned around a trip to the Byte Shop
for advice, and a dip in the pool.
I’m not going to think about pests, gremlins, or house cleaning.
Just floating around the pool…

Sentimental Journey...

Santa Monica Pier


Dad's Rocketdyne pic--2nd on left side, arms folded--
rocket gang!


Thanks for the suit, Ma!

'Headlight' Nan
Apple Valley desert

When my brother visited with me recently
from Arizona, he brought along a folder of
family photographs, many of which I'd
not seen before.

I couldn't believe how funny some
of them were. In many, I had a 'caught in
the headlights' expression on my face.
Michael remarked that I still fell into
the expression when talking about things.
Ha-ha...

We reminisced about our childhood in Santa Monica:
our house on the opposite side of the upper middle-class
neighborhoods, and how that kept so-called friends
from coming over for birthday parties; how I got
swept up in a rip-current when I was about 5-6, and
was saved by a lifeguard; the jelly-fish sting I got
one day; inner-tube wave riding; buying candy cigarettes
at the corner grocery;Mike's funny Messenger bike
and my new one...ouch!

Those were the days of tracking sand back to the
house from the beach, fishing from Santa Monica Pier,
buying Creamsicles from the Good Humor truck, and
catching gross spiders in a glass jar.
We played cowboys and indians--I was always 'arrowed'!
Mike cut my hair when I was 3 and whacked away my blonde hair.

There were times when we really got into it, typical name-
calling. We are like night and day in some ways.
He's a used-to-be brunette, and I'm a platinum blonde.
He loves to read historical books, and I like 'cozies'.

I said goodbye to Michael yesterday as he stepped curbside
at Regional South West Airport. A big hug, some"I love you's",
and he was off.

Yes, Mike's the Moonlight to my Sunshine...

Just Between Us...

*I’ve been away from my blog because
of lower back trouble, LBT as I call it.
I remain locked--sure that the 'key' has been tossed!
I’m coming back, no matter what, writing my
once a week blog--though sitting in my computer
room chair is a back killer.
I look forward to the M-W-F physical therapy sessions,
which includes the highlight of my day-- electric
stimulation therapy, or TENS, as it's called.
***********

My brother, Michael is visiting me, so we’ve been
having lunch out most days.
We drove down to Olde Naples the other day
and went to Tommy Bahama’s Tropical Café for lunch.
We grabbed the last booth--a large booth across from the
Restrooms doorway.
Figures…

We considered alfresco dining under the thatched
umbrella tables but decided it was too hot for outdoor dining--
though a good place for people watching.

While Mike and I ate, I was watching the parade of
European tourists move through the doorway.
thinking I might spot just one person who might be dragging
just a hint of bathroom tissue along the path, usually firmly
affixed to the heel of a shoe. It’s a common occurrence, and takes
awhile for the person to notice.

Such an event happened to me while returning to my seat
on an airplane, which has been so long ago.
A young man got my attention by pointing behind me:
I’d dragged about 15 feet of tissue behind me, apparently
snagged on my clothing.
Talk about embarrassing moments, but all I could do was laugh…

I’ve been sort of eavesdropping on people’s conversations
during our lunches. It’s been easy since the talker seems
to be talking to everyone within 20 square feet of their own table.

One gal was saying that she was picked up for a date in
a convertible, and she closed her own door quite hard.
Her date said “My, you’re a big girl!”

She was peeved and stewed for several miles on their
way to a social event, her hairstyle slowly unraveling as
was her temper. Upon arrival, she spent several minutes
in the car attempting to smooth many of the stray blonde
strands of tousled hair.

Opening the car door herself, she slammed the door as hard
as she could. The lady’s girlfriends all roared at their
friends’ storytelling. I was nearly done with my
Panera sandwich, nibbling on a pickle and potato chip,
ears alert to further interesting tidbits, when the
ladies parted company and the conversations spilled
through the back doors.

Tomorrow we may be going to Turner River Road.
Not a conversation pit, but is guaranteed to have a squad of
sunning alligators, or is it a gaggle?
No, that’s geese…
If Michael edges up too closely, we may have something to
talk about after all!

By Hook Or By Crook...

Insert Part A to Part B, intersected at the hypotenuse
of Parts D and C, making sure the tabs are facing inward.
Insert screws X and Y--do not tighten, yet.
At this stage of art table assembly, I’m ready to leap out
the window--even if it’s only a 3 foot drop.

I went on the internet to check on the directions.
I thought, just maybe, some other fumbler is struggling--
or has struggled through the directions--no doubt written
by a crinkled, beady-eyed old goat, beard falling into
his flask of Johnny W, in his 4x4, windowless cubicle.

The comments about the table were glowing:
"Easiest table to put together. had it up in an hour."
"Couldn’t have gone smoother--great table!"

I’ve spent 2 1/2 days earlier this past week attempting
to function like a human and assemble the dang table.
I only disassembled it twice!
“My aching back” has been a royal pain. I’ve been dueling
with an annoying sacroiliac which has kept me away from
sitting in front of my desk top PC for any length of time
to write my blog.

I’ve spent considerable time dreaming of having a
completely organized workspace for my art, photography,
and beading interests. I’d been occupying space in my
walk-in closet with most of my books and art stuff.

As I spent broken hours trying to figure out the
directions of the table--which, it turns out, had an illustration
discrepancy--I was thinking of ways to track down the
“brain” behind his desk--who, I’m sure, was devising new
and more complicated directions for me.
Maybe in 3-D?

So, here I sit in my new, ergonomic desk chair for my
art table--tapping out my blog on my portable
word processor. No, I don’t have a laptop…
My slightly lowered rib-tickler level needs a Mento
thrown into the mix. I’m hoping for an eruption of humor,
even a spit wad of something funny.

The small corner of the bedroom is finally complete with
all of my supplies neatly tucked into drawers, and my table,
waiting for me to finally sit down awhile to create.

Meanwhile, a letter is waiting to be sent to the mad illustrator
and text writer of my wonderful table.
I’m almost sure he has a stack under his nose by now…











I

Invasion!

I’m still getting sap out of my hair from the
Christmas tree. Now, if you believe that,
I can probably sell you swampland here
in Florida--might even come with a pet
alligator, or a Burmese Python.

Pythons are open to hunters now.
Thousands of these snakes are winding
through the Everglades--and even a few
have been spotted in populated Florida cities.

I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever saw a python
slithering in my wooded back yard. I might
give it the directions to a couple of homes where
yapping dogs break the peaceful hum of the outdoors.

I don’t like snakes whether harmless, or not.
One hot day a couple of summers ago, an
unidentified, dome-headed snake lay coiled in
the corner of our lanai, by the pool.

I hollered for Tom to remove it.
With a bamboo pole, he managed to drape
the snake--which was flaring out in attack mode--
and flung it out to the woods.
I was hoping for drawn and quartered myself…

I’ve been a few feet from a coral snake, which was
snaking its beautiful body along the pool pump,
just as I was coming around to feed the chlorinator
its weekly biscuits.

I ran 0-30 in a matter of seconds to the
garage for a shovel. By the time I’d made
it back to the same spot, the deadly snake
had winded its way toward the hose in the front yard.

I bashed it a few times, and it defied me,
slithering onto the damp grass. I took the
pointed head of the shovel--by that time, I was
shaking--and jabbed it hard as I could, then
shoveled the 3 foot lump and dropped it onto
a wooded, corner lot.

Passing gardeners gawked in amazement at my
catch of the day. Yes, I’m not a snake fan, nor
a fan of anything creepy that has more legs than I do.

With Spring finally here, and hot summer
days ahead, I’m also on creepy-crawler, fly-by
critter watch. I’m sure invading armies of
subterranean fire and black ants are planning
their “Nancy” invasions in my yard.

Mosquitoes are busily promoting their species
for a juicy attack, along with their co-conspirators,
no-see-ums. I’m waiting…